The Ties that Bind
by Lady of Tears
Summary: As the wizarding world mourns the death of the Chosen One, a young man named James appears in a muggle orphanage, with no memory of his past.    Maybe, the past isn't so safe. Maybe, it's best forgotten.
1. Prolouge

**The Ties that Bind**

**Prologue**

_The past is safe._

We didn't know it at the time, but we know it now. It seemed so uncertain, so bleak and disastrous. But really, it was fine. The past is safe because we survived. We conquered. We grew. Our memories prove that.

But what if you don't have memories?

What if all you have is the dream that maybe you were once loved, once cherished? At night, when sleep eludes you, what do you do when you suddenly realize that maybe no one cares that you're gone? That those people who you assume were a part of your life couldn't care less that you sleep in a rickety bed in a run down orphanage, with no idea of who you are.

What if your only comfort is the presumption that your eyes once watered with a joy you'll never know again? With a love you'd give anything to remember?

What if you have nothing at all?

Then maybe the past isn't so safe. Maybe, it's best forgotten.  
[James, St. Jude's Orphanage]

Things always had a way of reorienting themselves around gaps. As long as there were more who wanted to move forward, those who were left were always dragged along. It was like taking a pebble out of a stream; everything else just moves in to fill up that hole. It felt like they were the only ones still stomping around trying to kick up the water.

But it didn't matter how hard they kicked. People were already tiptoeing around his memory, when just a year ago Rita Skeeter plastered his face on every newspaper in the wizarding world. They told her she'd move on. It was only natural after all.

They told her, "He'll always be a hero."

"They'll never forget."

But it wouldn't be long. He would be a name in a book in a chapter describing a dark and dreadful day. But the book would get old. Its pages would yellow and its spine would break. Heroes with more grandeur and fame than he ever had would rise. He'd just be a name people would swear on.

He'd never again be the boy that had a curious obsession with Quidditch. No one would know that he had a favorite armchair by the fire, or that he had to stay up late in the middle of the night to do homework because he was lazy sometimes.

No, he'd just be a name. The name of someone who never actually existed.

It made her want to cry.

The tears were what she fought against now, as she pressed her face into the soft fabric of the pillow, bushy brown hair obscuring all but the delicate white hollow of her neck. Despite her best efforts, a weak trickle slid gracefully down her flushed cheek, burning her skin. Making no movement to wipe it away, her eyelids fluttered shut, a faint glimmer staining her eyelashes. The sound of rain assaulted her window, and she waited for it to come. That fire in her chest, and that ache in her bones, with the relentless wetness flowing down her cheeks. With each passing day, she lasted a bit longer. As the months faded away, she mastered her grief into silence; somehow, she had managed to keep the groans and sobs inward, though they now slashed a bit at her insides whenever she thought about things for too long. But still, each day, it came.

"Hermione?"

The voice sounded weak, and Hermione's body went rigid. Lifting her head, she saw a familiar outline, and the hue of the girl's red hair. Hermione uncurled her arms from around her body, wincing. Limbs stiff, she moved slowly, the dim light of the room stinging her eyes. For a moment, she couldn't comprehend her surroundings as they unfolded into view. Her single form in the empty room, and the gray light still spilling onto the floorboards seemed out of place in her mind. Things weren't supposed to be like this.

He was supposed to be here.

A shiver shuttled through her spine as she slipped from the covers, bare feet pressing gently on the floor. It only took a glance at the face of Ginny Weasley for Hermione to understand.

"Is it Ron?" she asked mildly, trying to smooth away the wrinkles in her clothes. Ginny just nodded, her brown eyes wide and anxious. Hermione felt a sigh sticking to her lips as slipped on her shoes, a sadness sinking through the pit of her stomach.

There had been glimmers of hope. As the hot summer days passed, recovery seemed possible. He had stopped tossing the gnomes into the garden wall until he practically fainted from exhaustion. Fred could make jokes without having a drink thrown in his face. As they sat secluded on the Hogwarts Express, she'd been able to criticize him on his dismal eating habits with good response.

But being back inside of Hogwarts had done something to Ron Weasley. Something horrible, like a great and dreadful storm billowing up and swallowing everything in utter agony without a sense of purpose or direction. Better to have everything destroyed than to have any happiness linger in a world without his best friend.

"It was Neville this time," Ginny said, voice lined faintly with fatigue. Hermione's head snapped up from her feet, eyes suddenly thin in worry. The redhead's mouth hung slightly open, before she pressed her lips together. "I mean, I don't know what he was thinking, talking about Harry like that," Ginny continued on, looking out the window, a slight look of annoyance on her face. "Neville knows better."

Hermione was silent.

"At least he didn't throw anything."

She was trying to fill up the hollow sound of the room. Hermione twisted the end of her sleeves in her fingers, feeling her face pull strangely into an unreadable emotion.

"I'll go," she said quietly, pushing herself towards the door. Each footstep was heavy, but there was no stopping her path. She always went.

The hallways were empty. With a vague recollection of time and space, Hermione realized everyone would be at dinner. Even the portraits were averting their glances, knowing all too well where she was headed. He was always in the same place, voice caustic and dangerous. It seemed pity was the only thing that kept him from the greater punishments past detention. Hermione winced lightly as she heard a crack at the end of the second floor corridor, knowing their period of grace would have to come to an end someday. They would be expected to recover.

She hesitated as she came to the door of the girl's lavatory on the second floor, pushing gently with her fingers.

He stood at the sink, staring at his crooked reflection in the mirror. There was a long crack down the middle.

"Ron – " Hermione broke off when he slammed his fist against the sink.

"He doesn't know Harry at all," he whispered through clenched teeth, and Hermione inwardly shrunk back at his use of present tense.

"He did. He was Harry's friend," Hermione said quietly, blinking as Ron's eyes snapped to hers in the mirror, glaring. Not looking at him, she walked over, gently prying his clenched fingers from the porcelain rim of the sink.

"What happened at dinner?" she asked, staring grimly at his bruised knuckles as she moved his hand into the light. It was as if he wanted to scar himself, have the pain throbbing in him, just in case he forgot and let the memory of his best friend slip away for even a moment. Ron worked his hand away from her fingers, kicking his foot on the ground.

"He thinks Harry wanted this," he growled, not bothering to push his hair out of his face as he looked at his shoes, fists swaying angrily at his sides.

"I'm sure that's not what he meant."

Biting down hard on her lip, Hermione watched as Ron slumped against the wall, sliding down until he was on the ground. She followed his action, their shoulders touching.

"He kept saying Harry was a hero," Ron mumbled, and Hermione wrapped her arms around her legs, trying to hold herself together. She was suddenly very cold.

Hermione pressed her chin to her knees, hair falling over her shoulders. "You don't think he was a hero?" she asked quietly.

"No!" Ron said vehemently, looking at her with burning eyes. "He didn't want to be a hero. He wanted to be normal. He didn't want to go into the maze. He didn't want any of it!"

Hermione traced a circle on the floor with her finger.

"He's just Harry," Ron said with a thick resolve. Hermione could only nod, thinking any other action would somehow desecrate the moment.

They sat in silence, and Hermione was comforted by his presence, as volatile and unpredictable as it was these days. She could hear his harsh breathing, and see the violent rise and fall of his chest out of the corner of her eye. Somehow, she wished her own heart could still beat with that same wild hope. Rather, it sat numbly under her ribs, more like a vestigial organ than anything else.

"He was there tonight at dinner."

"Who?" she asked, lifting her head from her knees. Ron tilted his head back, not looking at her. She wondered if he realized he had spoken.

"Dumbledore," he said after a moment, grimacing at the name resting on his lips.

"Oh."

"He wouldn't look at me."

Hermione pressed her lips together tightly, not wanting to think of the headmaster. It was like salt in a fresh wound. Her mind wrapped around the name, studying out every syllable. Dumbledore. There had been a time when it had meant safety, most of all for Harry. She had watched her friend walk into the maze that night, not thinking to memorize every movement in case she never saw him again. That name had assured her that a final moment with Harry wasn't coming any time soon. Now, the name stood for nothing more than the greatest failure she had ever known.

"You probably scared him," she whispered, before she could stop herself. For a moment, she thought she saw the ghost of a smile on Ron's face. Of course, it was nothing more than a mere shell of a happy emotion, but Hermione rejoiced in it anyway.

"Hermione?" he asked, looking intently at her now.

"Hmm?" she said into her jeans, resting her cheek on her knee.

"Do you think he's really d-d-ea—" he asked, voice deadening into silence, unable to speak the words.

Her fingernails dug into her palms as an icy hand gripped her heart, face falling. He'd hate her for admitting to losing hope, but the nights were growing longer, with the days growing shorter, and life moved without Harry in it.

"They never found him," she admitted with a grimace, averting Ron's heated gaze. She felt him lean away from her. The heat stung her eyes, and she gulped in a hot breath of air, blinking fast.

Fire had consumed the town of Little Hangleton that night, a magical inferno that raged for hours. Even though they had been hundreds of miles away, Hermione still thought she could feel the heat on the back of her neck. They had been in the stands for nearly two hours before the stadium had been evacuated, teachers running around like chickens with their heads cut off.

By the time sunlight dripped over the smoky horizon, the truth had been exposed.

There had been nothing, nothing except a bloodied, charred wand, resting solemnly in a gutter. Nothing to suggest Harry Potter had ever existed, or ever would again.

"Hermione—" Ron started, and she heard the crack in his voice. In a painful twist of her neck, she sniffed and looked back at him and the glaze over his eyes. She scooted towards him, closer than before. He let her, placing his injured hand in her open palm. Hermione could feel his breath in her hair, and she ran her fingers lightly over his knuckles, trying to think of a potion to soothe the aching.

"I miss him," Ron finally mumbled, body slumped like a rag doll against the wall.

Hermione vaguely realized something wet was rolling softly down her cheeks and into the fabric of her sweater.

"Me too."

* * *

_**A/N: So, I'm back! Kind of. I haven't written fanfiction in years! Most of my stories on this account are dead, and really horribly written. I don't think too many people will stop by and see this, but I wanted to post it anyways. I'm now an adult, but Harry Potter was such a large part of my childhood and I still enjoy fanfiction when I can. **_

**_There's a few things everyone needs to know. :) _**

**_This original AU plotline was first imagined by a wonderful writer named neutral, and has proved to be an inspiration for every fanfic I've ever written. The first two chapters of this story are inspired by her story, The Persistence of Memory. Oh, and see that little asterik? Everything before that asterik, and after the italics, belongs to her, and is used with permission. From that asterik, to the line "It made her want to cry" is my original take on one of her sequences, and is also done with permission. I dedicate this story to her._**


	2. Chapter 1

**The Ties that Bind **

**Chapter One: **

**The Ties that We Forget**

_I rested my head against a door the other day. _

_Doors. _

_They're just holes in walls really, that offer us a way out or a way in. I've noticed, just putting your hand on the knob and seeing if it turns can make you weak in the knees. _

_The door could be locked. If it is, you'd stand there furiously, beating against it with pointless fury. It could be unlocked, and your heart would start racing, and you couldn't help but wonder if you've finally found a place to call home. Someone could answer. Or maybe no one would ever come and let you in. Then you'd be standing there in silence, shoulders hunched and soul withering from the sudden wave of loneliness. The hinges could creak and the heavy wood might swing open, and there you are, suddenly standing at the threshold of a brand new tomorrow. What would you do if your horizon was nothing but clear blue skies? What if it's a raging storm? What if?_

_What if they were there? I imagined them, standing on the other side of the door. Everyone I've ever known in my life, everyone I've ever cared about, breathing, living behind that door. Faceless, nameless creatures. _

_Sometimes I think it's a shame I don't know them, and then I remember there's a knob on their side as well as mine._

_[James, November 15, Wool's Orphanage]_

"Get up," came an aggravated voice.

James was restless, and ignored it.

His body, too big for the rickety bed, twisted in the sheets. There was no stopping it, the musings of life that were pulling him back into existence. Most of all the hand now prodding painfully at his shoulder. James wanted to kick the metal frame that held his emaciated mattress, as if the action would give him a few more minutes of sleep.

"I'm not kidding James," said the voice, as the pillow was pulled out from underneath his head. Clinging to the thin blanket that covered is body, James groaned into the mattress. Unable to fight Will off any longer, he blinked, cringing as the room came into view.

It was a fragile sort of dawn, he could tell, as he reached for his glasses and shoved them on.

The grey light was delicately splashed against the dusty floorboards, remnants of rain pooling around the windowsill. James sucked in a breath of cold air as he sat up and regretted it. The dull chill settled uncomfortably in his lungs, and he pressed his knuckles to his lips, trying to stifle a ragged cough as it built up in his throat. Will just shook his head, throwing the pillow into James's lap.

"We're going to be late," he grumbled, rubbing his hands up and down his bare arms. James yawned before letting his face settle into a frown, not bothering to reply. It was bad enough, to sleep unsoundly, horrific colors and scents engrained into your every thought. There was no need to broadcast it.

The floor stung his feet as he made his way to the dresser, hopping as he went. There was little to choose from; he had no belongings of his own. Nothing he really wanted anyways. He hadn't been crazy about the hospital gown he was forced to wear for a month straight. Pulling on an over-sized, brown sweater, James found comfort in the dry fabric, and quickly finished dressing. He didn't know what it was about sweaters, but they gave him a strange sense of peace. Even when they didn't fit, even when they were scratchy, and even when they smelled musty and had fraying sleeves, James would put them on.

It was just one of the bizarre things about him, and one he was quite content with. It was less bizarre than the thin scar that graced his forehead, which felt like it would split his skull open when he tried to remember if his name was really James. It probably wasn't, but it was the first name that had come to mind when the doctors had asked him who he was. Studying himself in the mirror, James pushed away his black hair, tracing with his fingers the lightning shaped thing running down his forehead. Now that he really thought about it, the scar gave him trouble when he tried to remember anything about his past. During those days in the hospital, when the doctors practically begged for any information he could remember, he'd writhe in pain from the headaches.

James didn't try to remember anymore. Not when the doctors had sent him here, to Wool's Orphanage. The place felt right, oddly enough, and though his memories could only span the last few months, they completed him nicely. There were times, of course, when he felt like a few pieces were missing. Like bits of the puzzle had been crammed together, where a curve here and there didn't quite fit, but it was just too complicated to change it all. The picture formed was pretty enough, and re-starting just for a few misshapen pieces seemed pointless.

James just shook it off. The medication he took always had weird side-effects.

"You look pretty," Will said sarcastically, though a grin had stretched across his face. James just shot him a look, turning away from the mirror. His friend stood in the doorway, a cap placed lazily a top his head.

Of all the people at Wool's, Will was James's closest friend, though neither of the two would ever admit it. It was the natural flow of things when two people were forced to survive together. From stealing medicine for James when the orphanage couldn't afford it, to showing him the shower that had the hottest water, Will had proven to be an unusually good friend.

"Remind me why we have to do this again," James said, as he pulled on his shoes, fingers working quickly at the laces, referencing their weekly task of delivering newspapers. He could already feel the bundle in his arms, weighing him down and making his muscles sore.

"To prove we're upstanding members of society," Will replied, fiddling lazily with the end of his sleeves.

For James, it was easy to hear the disgust so well disguised in his friend's tone. Will, who had grown up in the orphanage, had told him stories. The stories of shop owners, who wouldn't sell you food even when the money was sitting on the counter, and of the teenagers in their school uniforms who'd kick your feet out from underneath you when were walking down the street.

James's shoes, wore down on the soles, left a mark on the floor as he walked over and clapped Will on the shoulder.

"Well, you are a dangerous little prat," James said solemnly, ducking out of the room as Will lunged. His face hurt from the grin now stretched from ear to ear, and James felt Will's cap hit his back as he bounded downwards. The stairs creaked and felt unstable underneath his feet, and James finally stopped as he felt his lungs constrict painfully. Will wasn't far behind, and he elbowed James lightly in the side as he passed him on the staircase.

"Orphan," he jibed as he went, and James rolled his eyes, holding onto the railing as he walked.

There was a girl, sitting on the stairs, eating a bowl of cereal. He moved to avoid her. The grandfather clock, the most valuable thing in the orphanage, ticked and tocked quietly through the empty halls. It resonated in him somehow. It was a normal morning, he concluded, as he reached the last landing. When he heard the shuffling of feet, James looked over the railing to where Will was now standing. A bundle of blue was running towards Will's legs, a tuft of blonde hair poking out from the blanket wrapped body. It was hard not to feel a pang of something unwelcome as Will scooped up the toddler in his arms.

It was disgustingly sweet sometimes how well liked Will was by the young residents of the orphanage, though James could never hold it against him. He tried to move quietly as he took the last few steps down. No one seemed to take notice of the movement. James rested his head against the front door as Will whispered something in the ear of the little boy. Moment too poignant to interrupt, James closed his eyes, trying not to let his mind get away from him. There were things that made him hurt, things he could not explain. He was frustrated with the thought that the hurt might never evolve or soften. Time was a fickle thing, after all. The idea of brotherhood and family, and meaning something to someone felt feeble in his veins. James didn't think he liked that idea very much. It was one that seemed selfish. The ties that bound people together like that were always glorified. It seemed like a waste to James, when the ties were always forgotten, as time went sailing on. The little boy now squealing with laughter would forget Will one day, just as James had forgotten what he'd eaten for breakfast yesterday and the names and faces of every person he had ever cared about. That was, of course, if he had someone like that in his life.

James was doubtful.

The little feet were shuffling again, growing quiet. More than likely Will had sent him back to bed, to have dreams that didn't involve burning green light. James blinked, peering through his glasses at Will's dark eyes, which were now focused intently on him. He looked uncomfortable.

"Sorry," he said, pushing at the front door, light spilling across his face, even with the cloudy weather.

"Don't say anything," James answered, waving him off, suddenly feeling defective as a human being. Will stepped out into the cool morning air, and James poked his head out after him. A biting feeling assaulted his cheeks, and Will swore lightly under his breath, shoving his hands deep inside his pockets. He shot James a look that said something along the lines of "you-better-get-out-here-or-else." James reluctantly stepped past the threshold, door clicking soundly behind him.

* * *

The days were sliding like water through his hands.

Uncatchable, untamable. And quick. Endlessly quick as they crashed over his rough fingers.

It was entirely possible he was dead, he thought, though if this was what being dead was like, he was utterly disappointed. You weren't supposed to feel pain when you died. Or so he had heard. And the horrid throbbing of blood in his head could be classified as pain. Still, with his face down on the cushions of the couch, he felt he was nothing more than a body. There was little air in his lungs, as breathing had proved long ago to be too painful. He only let it seep in past his teeth when his body forced him to.

There was a sound coming from below him. It was a whistling noise, muffled by layers of stone staircases. He remembered there was someone else with him. For the first time, there was movement in his lifeless form as he blinked, ignoring the dirty black hair covering his face. There were footsteps, and then a figure.

"I made tea," came a gentle tone, but he refused to move. He wouldn't move for the owl that pestered the window when it brought the Daily Prophet, and he didn't budge when the patronuses came and went, spewing off warnings of You-Know-Who's triumphant victory in some village every other day. Certainly, he wouldn't move for a cup of tea. The sound of china touching wood resonated in his ears.

"What are you doing here?" a cracked voice suddenly asked. It took a full moment of silence for him to realize he had spoken. It had to be the first time in days. Catatonic, he thought, was the proper word to use in this situation.

"I've decided to take a rest from nearly getting myself killed," the calmer of the two voices replied, before pausing.

Giving up a bit, he turned his head to study the figure better. Like an antique, the man held an aged quality, with gentle lines shadowing his face, a sprinkling of light color amongst his brown hair. He was reminiscent of a handsome sort of thing sitting on a shelf, forgotten and covered with a fine layer of dust.

"That's what you get when you run with werewolves," his body managed, surprised to hear a hint of teasing in the seams tying his voice together. The man was surprised as well, eyes wide, mouth smiling.

"It's an occupational hazard," he said, taking a sip from his own cup, though his eyes were still focused forward. There was something light in them, something familiar and carefree, and out of place for the world they lived in. Traces, he figured, of days gone by. Part of him wanted to say something, to ask about his missions, assigned to try to pull some sort of victory out of the endless darkness. It seemed a bit pointless. There was no winning, not now. He remained still, and his old friend cleared his throat.

"Would you like to sit up?" the man asked.

"When I feel like it," he said, voice a bit stronger, in an immensely angered tone. The figure opposite him in the armchair just laughed. The sound of it was a bit empty.

"You're acting like a child Padfoot," he said softly, without a hint of bite.

"_He_ was a child Remus," Sirius said dolefully, though he began pushing himself into a sitting position. Remus's body stiffened a bit in the armchair. He recovered quickly however, Sirius noted, as he watched Remus's face pull into a determined expression of strength. Out of desperation, Sirius picked up his tea, though the cup shook in his hands.

A child sent to be slaughtered, Sirius thought, pressing the rip to his cracked lips. Against his own will, he had to admit the liquid felt good to his dry throat. Remus was staring, looking mollified. Sirius swallowed, trying to keep a dejected expression on his face.

"A quiet, brave, unusually strong child," Remus said, nodding with a sudden easy smile highlighting his face.

He was there then, Harry. Sirius could see him, though he felt the vision did little justice to his godson. He'd be older now, fifteen. Surely he'd be taller, perhaps a head above Hermione, but not as tall as Ron, with that same smile when he laughed. The sound of it, so like his fathers, filled him up until a ripple of horror burned through his veins, and Sirius was forced to push the image as far away as he could. Shadows filled up the caverns the Potter family had created inside of his heart. There were moments when he almost dared to be angry at them, but Harry's face would pop into his mind, along with the expression he had worn when he had entered the maze, and it all faded away.

Determined, forcibly brave, the nerves carefully lining the youthful shadows of his face. The fourth champion of the Tri-Wizard Tournament, heading off to his unforeseeable doom.

"He'd have been a great wizard," Sirius said, wondering vaguely if Harry would have taken off his glasses the way James had done when he had a headache, or if he'd enjoy reading the Daily Prophet over breakfast the way Lily had.

"He was," Remus corrected, and Sirius suddenly felt envy for the time Remus had spent with him, teaching him. They were hours he would steal if he could.

"Better than that Diggory boy," Sirius grumbled, ignoring the look Remus shot his way. Exasperated, Sirius drained the rest of his tea before carelessly tossing the cup onto the cushion next to him. It bounced to the floor and cracked.

"He tried to help Harry," Remus insisted. Sirius just scoffed, and rolled his eyes, while feeling quite inhumane as he did so.

"We don't know that. We don't know anything, except that Harry's gone," Sirius said, voice raised lightly, sound pushing angrily through his teeth. Any argument Remus had must have been weak, because he sank back in his chair, lost in what seemed to be a painful thought. Sirius could see it. It wasn't hard to imagine that night. The night the terror of the darkest wizard was resurrected. The night that rat finally got what was coming to him. The night Harry vanished, like smoke evaporating into the skyline.

"They released him last week, you know," Remus said carefully. Sirius's face clouded over, wishing they would change the subject. "They expect he'll make a full recovery, though he'll walk with a limp for the rest of his life."

Sirius remembered the leg. He had to look away when the boy had been found. Yes, the image of his leg had been a gruesome one, the one nearly torn off, and it was all he could see when he thought of Cedric Diggory, half-dead underneath a pile of cracked and crumbling headstones. Remus raised an eyebrow, and Sirius rubbed his temples.

"You should get out Sirius," he said. A worried expression made him look even older, brown hair thinner and with less color in his face than before. The thought was strange, and unnatural. Of course, that freedom had been carelessly thrown his way when the body of Peter Pettigrew had been found. He was perfectly capable of walking outside the door of Grimmauld Place, to wander the streets until he realized he'd never find Harry.

The thought had been tempting, but still he remained inside the walls he hated. Sirius wondered if this was what giving up felt like. He wondered if Harry would hate him for it.

Weary, Sirius was able to manage a bark-like laugh, placing his head into his hands. He could sense Remus's body leaning forward in anticipation and shock, as if he expected Sirius to stand up and blow up the couch. Fingers clawing at his skin, Sirius felt his nails digging in, emotions caught in the palm of his hands, body rocking back and forth. The sudden torment of Harry's memory had been stronger than he expected.

"Are yo—" Remus started, breaking off when Sirius dropped his hands.

Unable to hide, the truth was exposed in every line of his face. Sirius felt the insanity with his fingers, the bizarre way his lips were upturned. There was a maniacal laughter in his throat, and a hot glaze covering his eyes. Remus was on his feet, and Sirius just leaned backward, fingers pulling at the ends of his hair.

"I should have Molly cut my hair," he said through the bursts of anguished laughter, unable to breathe, standing on his feet.

Without a word, he made a mad dash for the staircase. Remus looked positively frightened, and Sirius was sure he saw his fingers clench, as if to reach for his pocket at a moment's notice.

"See you later Moony," Sirius called out, voice losing control. The footsteps behind him were quick.

"Sirius!" The desperation was obvious in his voice.

He wanted to apologize. For abandoning Remus, when they were the last two members of their now shattered family, and for forgetting the things that wound their lives together. There was just too little of his soul to spare, and he seemed unable to afford any amount of pity. Not for Remus, who he hated for being able to look upon the past without breaking down, or Cedric Diggory, who people bemoaned because he lived with a limp when others didn't live at all. There was only pity for the be-speckled boy in his mind, a begging look in his green eyes for protection, hands twisting in his black hair from fright. Sirius slammed the door to his room shut, and there was silence beneath him. His mind was plagued, and he practically collapsed against the door, hitting his head as hard as he could. There was only pain, and the bitter taste of loss. There was only Harry.


	3. Chapter 2

**The Ties that Bind**

**Chapter Two: **

**The Ties that We Ignore**

_A little girl broke an ornament today when she was trying to put in on the tree. _

_It was a nice glass bauble with jewels. When it fell, it broke into pieces, angry shards all over the floor. They tried to clue it back together. t was pointless. It would have been better to go back and get another one, rather than wasting all the time trying to restore the ornament to how it was. _

_When things get broken beyond repair,it's better to just sweep them up and throw them away. You can replace it with something just as good. Why try to fix it, when the beauty can never be mended, and the result would be an ugly looking thing? _

_I'm not going to waste my time. _

_[James, December 1, Wool's Orphanage]_

He had expected bodies.

Bodies that had been mangled, chomped on, or other wise disfigured. He was expecting a teapot that hissed acidic steam, or scarves that were cursed to choke the life out of its victims.

But there was nothing.

Well, there was _something. _Bits of glass littered the floor, and an annoyed sort of expression was tightly creased into the lines of the woman's face. But, as far as he could tell, there was no malice soaked into the evening air. The relief was creating an odd sensation in his body, one that was making it quite hard to stand; Arthur Weasley was sure he had lost all the feeling in his feet. He saw the movement in his shoes as he wiggled what he suspected were his toes, but he felt nothing.

He thought of his youngest son, and wondered if this was the sensation that was still lingering inside his soul. A wave of pity overtook him, as well as an intense longing for his wife's warm embrace. Arthur pulled up his sleeve as discretely as possible, watching the hands on the clock move.

"It was those hooligans, I'm sure of it."

The voice was low, distracting, and full of hot air that must have expanded the woman's lungs to an uncomfortable position inside of her fleshy ribcage.

"Hooligans ma'am?" Arthur asked politely, trying not to look too pleased with the prospect as something as harmless as rowdy teenagers. The sudden image of a green skull resting over the counter of the coffee shop popped up in his mind, and he shook his head, the cap almost falling off his thinning red hair. As Head of the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office, it was his duty to protect the Muggle population from the influx of dangerous muggle items cursed to harm the non-magical. The job was becoming more sinister with each passing week, and Arthur was growing weary of the glowing Dark Mark resting atop households and shops across the city. He pushed a bit of glass around with his the tip of his shoe.

"From the orphanage," she said, spitting as she talked. Arthur paused, waiting for her to elaborate, but she simply raised an eyebrow, as if her previous answer was obviously enough to explain. Saying nothing, Arthur peered closely at the jagged hole ripped through the window. The spells slipped off his tongue as he murmured them, waiting anxiously for some residue of darkness to suddenly appear and lash out. Something deliciously cool pulsed through his veins as any visage of danger ebbed away. He looked up to find the woman was still talking.

"- always causing trouble! Why they're allowed on the streets, I'll never know. Especially the br-"

Her words melted together as the exhaustion taunted him. His ears blocked out her obvious bigotry; if only she knew that murders roaming the streets of London found her to be a disease. He sighed, turning his head at a new movement. His partner, Perkins, was standing outside on the street, wearing a similar look of weariness and relief, and a very empty look of calm and reassurance appeared on Arthur's face.

"I'm sure you're right. I hope they find them," he said in a clear tone, making his way to the door. She nodded vigorously, happy for his agreement. He had already spent too much time here, pretending to be interested in why the window was broken; there were more places to check, and Arthur knew that they would eventually find the dark objects someone had tipped them off to an hour before. The message had been vague, though that wasn't surprising. People were too afraid these days to report all the details. Tipping his hat, Arthur mumbled something vaguely reminiscent of a farewell, but it came out garbled.

The weather matched the strife inside of him. Cloaked in a thick layer of cool, darkening grey mist, Arthur could practically taste the rain on the tip of his tongue. Umbrellas were already propped open in the thinning masses that occupied the cobblestone sidewalks; everyone was going home.

"Nothing," Perkins said simply as he approached, shrugging his aged shoulders while clutching his coat tighter to his chest. The old cabbage scent that followed the man around was oddly comforting. Arthur didn't respond, but kicked a pebble with his foot. It bounced nosily into the street, dancing eerily in the light of the street lamps. Its steady rhythm continued as it went, running away from the man that had caused its motion. Arthur blinked as it finally rolled out of view, droplets gently starting to sway down his spectacles.

"We'll find it eventually," Arthur said, pulling off his glasses and rubbing them on his old muggle coat. Perkins just nodded in agreement, rubbing his wrinkled hands together in anxiousness.

Arthur didn't notice the young man at first. There were too many distractions. Every motion, every action, had the singular purpose of victory. To bring just one more item in, to save a life, and to let him go home to his little red-headed wife and children. But as he slid his glasses back on his face, the huddled figure was all he could focus on. Everything else became inconsequential. The ragged outline seemed to scream to him from across the street, where a boy was on the ground, legs splayed out on the pavement, head hung as his body rested against the wall. Furrowing his forehead, Arthur could see the defined shiver of the boy's muscles, and the slick of wet, black hair against a pale face. Perkins was staring, his aged hand swaying as if to reach out and grab Arthur's sleeve, to pull him away. But he couldn't be stopped. Arthur's foot slipped a bit on the sidewalk as he stepped out into the street.

"What's going on?" Perkins asked thinly in worry, wondering if his partner had sensed something dark. Arthur stood there, something different and odd swelling up his chest. Someone was gripping at his arm, and he looked to the hand, viciously tight for one so old. Shaking his head, he exhaled lowly.

"Nothing," he said, and his partner's body visibly relaxed, gently folding his wand back into the fabric of his coat. "It's just that boy…"

Looking back across the street, Arthur realized that the attention he was giving was not lost on the subject of his curiosity.

The boy's head tilted upwards. The air deflated, and Arthur felt the hot dry rush of shock like a lightning bolt to his heart. The name came off his lips in a cracked, whispered manner.

"Harry?"

* * *

They were supposed to be going home, now that they had finished the distribution route.

But they weren't.

James felt too weak to argue against their sudden change in direction.

He was too weak to even call out to Will, who had gone too far ahead. It was an action that confused him; Will, though he would gripe about it for various reasons, always kept pace with him. But at the moment, James could barely make out Will's brown hair from where he was. No matter how many steps he took, or how long he trudged through the people, it seemed like he got nowhere, and Will just got farther away. He had half a mind to just flop down into the puddles and wait until morning, and pray that he was still alive.

To tell the truth, he wasn't sure how his muscles were still working. When had woken up this morning, his body felt like it had the consistency of chocolate pudding. It was a fairly humorous way to describe a sensation that was quite painful in reality. Then again, when James thought about it, he never knew. No one did. Not the doctors, or his teachers, or the pharmacists. His apparent lack of an immune system was a complete mystery. There were the coughs, and the way he bruised, and the everlasting exhaustion. Then, worst of all, there were the fevers that kept him incapacitated for days at a time. It was all very tiresome.

James kept going though, eyes focused lazily in front of him. He had to admit, he was being mildly melodramatic. Nothing, aside from Will's detour, was out of the norm. Even the street was familiar in a distant sort of way. There were all sorts of shops, and places to eat, and absolutely no reason for them to be here. None of the wares were in an orphan's price range. Focusing through the umbrellas, he saw Will had stopped and exhaled from relief. James made an extra effort to pick up his feet.

"Something you want to tell me?" James asked, glad his voice wasn't as quiet as it normally was when he got sick. Will just looked at him, a calm sort of expression on his face. He seemed not to have noticed that James had been so far behind.

"I just have to pick something up," he replied, shrugging his shoulders casually. James rolled his eyes, and Will smirked. "Feel free to wait out here."

James shoved his hands in his pockets, and leaned against the wall. He didn't like going into shops most of the time, especially when he was feeling like this. There were always too many people staring.

"Hurry up?" he asked, though he tried not to state it as a question. Of course, Will was going to see straight through him, but he nodded, as if he was conceding. Without a moments hesitation, Will strode into the drug store. James watched through the door until Will was out of sight. Sighing, he rested his back against the brick wall, and felt his sweater growing damp from the water.

There was a twinge in his hands as his nails dug mildly into his palms.

It wasn't painful, but the sensation was enough for him to muster up a reaction. Pulling his hands out, James flexed his fingers before studying his palms. James hadn't realized he'd exerted so much tension. The red crescent imprints were barely visible amid the streaks of dirt and grime of a hard days labor. James wiped his hands on his pants, not expecting the sudden wave of pain. Blinking, it didn't even take a second for James to realize the intensity. A snag of air caught in his throat and he could feel the throb of his heartbeat in the tips of his fingers. It was beating too quickly, and James had to resist the urge to throw his hand to his chest just to see if it really was his heart. If anything, the chilled air should be slowing down his heart rate, not increasing it.

James didn't try to stop his body as it slumped down against the wall. Almost immediately, he felt better once he was sitting, legs out in front of him as if he was paralyzed. Ignoring the grumbles of the people who had to step around him, James let his head hang, counting as he took in long, deep breaths. With a more constant stream of rain falling from an increasingly dark sky, James grew colder, and realized he was shaking a bit.

He wanted to be embarrassed, but he couldn't ignore the fact that it felt better to be like a rag doll on the pavement than to stand and try to endure. James wrinkled his nose and felt a flush of jealousy for Will, who could walk through the rain, and the snow, and sweltering heat, as if invincible. A little drizzle, and James became useless. In one of those rare moments when James let himself reflect on the person he was before all of his memory left him, he thought he must have been a very weak person. After all, living in an orphanage just hardened you. And if this is how he was all toughened up, James was almost glad he didn't remember how weak he was.

Lifting his head, James saw everything in a distorted way. He guessed it was the rain that was blurring the outlines of the world around him. His focus slid in and out as he gained control of himself. That was, until a flash of shocking red caught his attention.

For a moment he thought the pain was taking on a physical manifestation, making him see red. Wiping his eyes, James squinted and tried to focus on the concentration of color in his otherwise grey surroundings. What he saw wasn't that encouraging. James exhaled through his teeth. Why couldn't they ever stop?

There, across the street, was a tall, balding man, staring at him in a peculiar and uncomfortable sort of way. If he had any more strength, James would have given a harder stare until the man looked away and left him alone. James realized, in his quick study of the man, the red was the last bits of the man's hair. Exasperated, he began to push himself up off the ground.

But as he continued to stare in the man's eyes, which had not turned away, the discomfort grew to something that James hadn't expected. It was the feeling he got when he thought there was one more stair than there really was, and his foot would come crashing down. Fear. Shock. Something you couldn't describe that made something other than your body hurt. It came swiftly, and seemed to have stalled his heart mid-beat. Green eyes wide, James realized the man was half way across the street. He was saying something.

"Harry!"

It was more like yelling, really.

James swallowed, and stood up, his knees cracking as he did so. He knew he should be calm. Obviously the man thought he was someone he wasn't, and he'd probably just have to say so. But there was something about that name that bothered him. Stumbling, though the crowd was almost gone, he made his way to the door, until he finally collided with something that was very distinctly alive and moving.

"James, what are y-"

Turning on his heels, he found Will, standing flabbergasted in the doorway, with a small brown bag clutched in his right hand.

"That man," James said. That red-haired man who was now on the curb. Will's eyes narrowed. The man who was reaching out, as James tried to take a few pitiful steps back. Will tried to step in front of him, spare him. But there was no way to avoid it. Internally, before the man even got a hold of him, James flinched.

The man's grasp was odd. It was weak at first, as if he hadn't actually been expecting to feel anything. But it grew stronger, tighter, and it hurt. It hurt more than his arms and he didn't know why. James didn't know what to do. There was an even older man, weazing and with eyes like saucers. Hoping a polite denial would be his way out, James cleared his throat. Will was edging closer, his free fist tight at his side.

"Sir -" he tried, but the man interrupted.

"Harry?" he asked in a whisper, leaning in close. James just shook his head.

"I'm James," he said. The blue eyes behind the rain-stained glasses looked disbelieving. And then, before James could stop him, a shaking hand was reaching for his face. Everything happened quickly after that, as if time was speeding up to compensate for the moments that had felt slowed down.

"Oi!" Will cried out, stepping in-between his friend and his captor, pushing the man away. James twisted out of the grip. And then, with a strength he never knew he had, he was running.

From what he was running, he didn't know. Well, he knew. The man. Of course the man. Or men, rather. Had they been holding sticks? James thought he saw the older man with a stick in his hand as Will had freed him. What a lousy thing to hit with, a stick. James blinked, and tried to breathe. But there was something else he was fleeing from. He didn't know. He didn't know if he wanted to know. There were sounds behind him, the most comforting being the second, faster pair of feet pounding against the slick pavement.

"Why are we still running?" Will cried out. "C'mon, they're not following!"

But he didn't stop. And with his labored lungs, there was only one thing James managed to reply. It seemed the most important.

"I'm James," he called out into the expanse. "I'm James!"

* * *

"I didn't see it," Arthur Weasley half-choked.

"See what?"

"Harry's scar. I didn't get to see it. I didn't get to know for sure."

Perkins stepped closer, pulling on Arthur's sleeve as they made their way to the alley. The confrontation with the two young boys had drawn unwanted attention.

"Harry Potter's gone," Perkins said, though if he had been listening to himself, he wouldn't have trusted the sound of his voice either. The boy had looked exactly like Potter. He even had those green eyes, just like toads that could be jumping around in this blasted rain.

Arthur didn't answer, looking drained.

"I'll go see Dumbledore," he said, more to himself than anyone. Perkins felt his muscles relax from relief. The doubt was seeping through Arthur's countenance. For that, Perkins was glad. As much as Potter's return would mean, these were not the times for silly dreaming. From what he had heard, Arthur's son, Potter's best friend, was half-mad these days with emotion.

Perkins, who knew Arthur well, didn't think such a trait could be found in the boy's father. But these were ungodly hours. Things got to people.

"That's a good idea," Perkins said, and Arthur just nodded, eyes still looking damp.

A crack filled the air, and the alley was empty.

* * *

James was desperate to change to subject. In fact, he no longer wanted to talk at all. Looking back, the physical exertion hadn't been smart. James could already feel the fever settling into his bones. At the moment, his lungs were raw, unable to be filled. Sitting on his bed in a defeated pose, James let his mouth hang open.

"What's in the bag?" he asked. Will just glared, the soggy paper bag tight in his fist. James really did want to know, but Will wasn't deterred for a second.

"Who were they?"

James blinked. He didn't want to think about this anymore.

"I don't know," he said, using the last bit of his energy to shrug his shoulders. Will just blew all of his air out through his teeth and walked towards the door. James understood his frustration. Living with an amnesiac had to be just as hard as being one. Being delivery boys didn't help. Being wet and hungry didn't help. Nothing did. Will was standing in the doorway, and James was sure he was going to walk out. But he didn't.

"Do you think you're Harry?" he asked, turning around. Automatically, James shook his head.

"I'm James," he said, repeating the phrase he had yelled out so vehemently earlier. Will studied the floorboards for a good long minute before tossing the bag to James's bed. Then, with one swift moment, he peeled off his shirt, and went searching through the small drawers for something dry. He became intensely occupied with the task.

With his curiosity needing to be satisfied, James peeked in the bag and then hung his head. Cold medicine. The good, expensive kind. The paper bag immediately became a symbol of sacrifice. It meant that the medicine had been bought, not smuggled out. Will always had more money than he did, but it was still not a lot. James didn't say anything; Will wouldn't want him too. Instead, he stood up, instantly swaying on his feet. Swearing inside his head, James acknowledged his weakness with disdain. He was half-way across the room when Will spoke again, though the sound was muffled. He was still pulling his clothes on over his head.

"Would you want to be Harry?" he asked, almost cautiously. "Would you want to be who they thought you were?"

James held onto the railing of the bed for support as he pressed his lips together. If he opened them, he'd say too much, and Will didn't look like he'd appreciate that right now. Finally, he managed a smile.

"No. Harry-whoever obviously has some crazy friends looking for him," James said, before pausing. Yes, they were friends of this Harry, the two men were. James could tell. "I don't really feel like they're my type."

Will just laughed, and James was glad for the lightness in the air. It made it easier to breathe.

He was half-way to the bathroom to get a glass of water when he stopped. The bottle of medicine was weakly held in his hand. There was a nagging in the pit of his stomach. James gave into it, just to get it over with.

"My name's Harry," he whispered, trying it out, then instantly frowning. He didn't like it. He didn't like it one bit.

Those men were obviously insane.


End file.
